Mr.George (as I had long called him, from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage and walked up and down, comforting me.
"Is Papa really dead ?" I at length found voice to ask.
"Yes, Margery dear.

I'm so sorry." "Will he go to Abraham's bosom, Mr.George ?" "Will he go _where_, Margery ?" "To Abraham's bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that's lying on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear old dogs." Mr.Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited.
Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to my own.

He said, "Oh yes, to be sure.

Yes, dear." "Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar ?" I asked.

"Do you think the angels took them too ?" "I don't know," said Mr.George.